You found my heart rolling down the filthy stairs of a crypt. Collecting dust and dirt as it hits each step. It keeps falling out of my chest. I try to keep a hand on it to stay in place, but my palms are holes. You see right through me. At the top of what’s upside down, this mountain is my burial ground. Roaming in a tomb for ages, reflecting on my life’s stages, flipping through ruined books and tearing out the pages. I’ll burn them for warmth because nothing makes sense anyways. Cryptic drawings and doodles of a madman consumed by his work. A scholar’s endless research devoid of a single helpful fact. A poet writing of his heart’s journey who keeps getting sidetracked. Ink slinging hands all covered in black.

That explains the hand prints on the curved stone walls. And the echo coming from the chamber down the hall. Now make a right. Don’t worry about stage fright. The audience will be here all night. I’ll deliver my speech, but will anyone listen? “The poets cry for more” is met with blank stares and selfish cares. But in a few paces, I’ll light up their faces. Eternal torches dance their flames atop the stone. Ancestral legacy came down to a pile of broken bones. But as the story goes, they can be made alive again. They had their chance to be normal, but normal wasn’t right for them. Look alive, look alive.

I can do anything. But I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve been places and I’ve seen things. Now what do I have to show for all the change? I’m worried my well-traveled heart won’t pass inspection. Notice my blank facial expression. The wordless page is waiting. The scratch of the quill. The smell of fresh ink. A trembling hand connected to a mind that can’t think. A way out of this. There has to be. I’m gonna get us out of here, lest my hearty har heart walks the plank of catastrophe.

This gritty crypt has a grotto. Snippity, Snip, Snip is its motto. Here is where we cut the strings of puppetry. Detach from the tangled mess of the lines of lies affixing our disguise. Drown that false face in the dark water. As you hold it below the surface, pain and deep feelings will surface. And the lies will be as convincing as ever. Staring into the empty eye sockets of your previous self and its imperfect existence, unlearn what it taught you. Take note of the unnoticed notice stapled to your dead forehead – “Here lies an old carcass with a mouthful of lies, who won’t shut up.” Though dead, still, it speaks. But a quick remembrance of the truth will put him in his place. Lead him back to his watery grave. A fine day’s work.

Honestly, I’m sick of writing about myself. But for the most part, it’s the only thing that helps. Stories and metaphors unlock wooden doors. I release their hinges and sail them to distant shores. That is of course, when I’m not so self-absorbed. This is what it takes to get healthy. And be confident and unashamed in His coming. Holy Spirit, take me beyond myself and what I’ve seen. This isn’t to infinity and beyond, or a new galaxy. It’s redemption reality through the return of the King. I just gotta get out of the way and let Him work.